


1 st1ll see (my) ghost

by thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ask Blog Stories Project, Ask the Bull Rebel, F/M, Sadstuck, Unrequited Love, depressing stories about fictional characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:23:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life as a Cavalreaper is straightforward. You fight and you win. Or you die.</p><p>Ghosts and Gamblignants and Revolutions weren't supposed to be part of the package. But it all comes down to the same thing in the end, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1 st1ll see (my) ghost

The old Lusii tales all said that hers was the first voice you heard when you died. That her powers came from Lord Death himself, the Skull Man with the mesmeric eyes. That she showed up at moments of great significance, that she was a harbinger of things to come. No one ever said _what_ things, but it was generally assumed (in private, at least) that she was an omen of change and death.

 

Which, of course, you shrugged off as rumor. Death was death, and you were no stranger to that. You were a Cavalreaper, after all, and death was part of your trade. If there was some crazy maroonblood going around and passing themselves off as the Demoness, Death's own Handmaid, then that wasn't your problem.

That is, it _wasn't_ your problem, until she showed up on your first battlefield.

 

You were young, you were cocky, you were twelve sweeps old and flying high. Not literally, of course, they'd have your head for that. But you were the best in your squad, and you were damn proud of it. Your instructors had all agreed. From some of them, the more hemoistic ones, the praise was grudging and sparsely given. From others, it was hard earned, but they smiled when they said it. Not all of your squadmates agreed that the shitblood should be getting so much praise and approval, but eventually, you won them over. Life was good.

After a suitably long training period (infuriatingly long, if anyone had thought to ask you), you were all sent off to the nearest battlefield. Some squads got lucky, with commanders who realized that trial by fire was all well and good, but you would wind up with more soldiers if you actually started them out slowly. Other squads were tossed straight into the fray. You were one of the lucky ones.

That still didn't stop you from nearly getting your head taken off.

 

The rogue greenblood came out of nowhere, snarling and furious, more than ready to take down some idiot who had gotten caught with his lance down. You leapt out of his way, barely dodging the rust-bitten sword that he swung at you, cursing your lusus, your name, calling you a traitor--and that held you stock still, shocked. Enough time for him to recover and turn on you again, a twisted kind of longing in his eyes.

Time stopped.

The first time you met the Handmaid, she took your lance from you, stabbed a rampaging troll through the bloodpusher, then tossed it back with an oblique look. **Y0u are n0t allowed t0 die yet.** Her words were jarring, more of an aching in your pan than any sort of noise that would come from a chitinous windtube. Then the world blurred again, and you were standing over the fallen troll, his blood barely visible against the grass. The battle was half over, and you were torn somewhere between terrified and pissed, so you dove back in and _fought_.

 

After that, most of the grumbling about you stopped. And you kept up, worked harder than anyone else. You were determined to never see that woman again.

The second time you saw her, you had just been promoted for the first time. She stood in the back of the crowd and gave you that same look. Then she turned on a heel and vanished. For the first time in your life, your blood ran cold.

 

From that point on, it became something of a game to spot her. At one of your battles, when you were walking through the town, when you had missions. Some part of you wondered if she was a protector, some sort of body guard. Another part of you wondered why in the stars would she bother to keep _you_ of all trolls alive. It kept you up at night. Was it because of your wings? Your blood color? Frustrated and distracted, you would drift off, safe in a sopor-filled haze.

 

Perhaps it was because she was always following you, or maybe she was following you because you were destined for it. But one day you looked down from where you had worked so hard to get, and you saw the pain and misery. Then you looked up, and you saw the rot and corruption. And you thought of a brave troll, a candle that had burnt out fast, one that had fought to change it.

That night, your dreams were filled with fire and irons and blood the color of a burning brand.

 

After that, you hardly care about your green shadow. You start making allies, connections, friends. Then you reveal your wings to all of your Cavalreapers, and raise a revolution. The Sufferer would have been proud, you think, to see all these lowbloods coming together to fight for their rights. Your ranks swell, and you make quite a few decisive victories. And that's when you meet her.

The troll of the untamed hair and cerulean blood, of the dragon-burned eye, of the webs and deceits and betrayals, a highblood who worked against everything you stood for. And you were stupid enough to fall in love with her.

 

Everything went marvelously right, the highbloods were falling, the lowbloods were rising up. Then one rainy night, you walked away from your hive with her blood all over your hands.

It didn't matter that she had been a gamblignant, a seagrift of the worst character, nor that she was a highblood. It didn't matter that she had asked you to do it. It didn't matter that she had said it had been planned, that it was destined.  All that mattered was that Spinneret was dead, and you were the one that had killed her.

You curled up outside your hive, too empty to even cry. Shelter and sunrise no longer mattered. Your heart was gone, it had been lost along with Mindfang. You hardly noticed when warm hands tugged you to your feet and hauled you into your hive. It wasn't until this stranger set you down indoors that you realized it was your green shadow. **It is h0w she wanted t0 g0.**  
  


Your voice is hoarse, but you manage a reply. "She wouldn't have wanted to go at all."

**True. I cleaned f0r y0u.**

"And her--the body?"

**D0 n0t ask f0r kn0wledge y0u d0 n0t wish t0 have.**

You nod, and she turns to go. "Wa1t. 1...thank you. Handma1d." The Demoness inclines her head to you, then walks out of your hive.

 

From there, you saw her every day. She would walk into your hive, watch your training, stand in the middle of a raging battlefield without getting a single scratch. Seeing turned into talking. Eventually, she stayed for a meal or two. And things progressed. You never know which of you made the first move, but when one of your quiet meals wound up in a tangle of limbs and lust, you almost thought you saw her smile.

Things continued like this for a time, her bone-deep, graveyard-quiet words turning into moans and cries. She was hopeful, you could see it in her eyes. Hopeful that the two of you could continue like this. But it made things worse to think about that, so you pushed that thought away and dove into your revolution.

And you never said the words she was longing for.

 

The Condesce herself came to cull you. It had been a hard battle, tridents slashing at lances, a shield shattering, the air filling with blood the colors of deep sea royalty and common muck. But her laugh had been high and cold as she slammed the lance out of your hand, spun around you, and almost delicately caressed one of your wings blades--then she _pulled_ , and the world had gone pure white.

The seabitch had given orders that you were to be conscious for every part of your torture, which meant that they had to stop often to let you come back to your senses. It almost made you laugh, thinking that it had been her decision to give you a break between ripping out your other wing blades and snapping off your horns. You had never been particularly sensitive when it came to those, but the pain had shorted you out nonetheless.

 

She decided to make your death a public show, a sort of entertainment crossed with a warning to the other lowbloods. This is what happens to rebellions. This is what happens to their leaders. As you stood there, waiting to die, you saw your green shadow in the crowd and the most treacherous part of you wondered if it would have been different if you had loved her. If she would have fought for you and saved you. If she would cry at all when you died.

The trident was almost a relief when it came.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the Ask Blog Stories Project, written as a gift for zankyger who is the mod of Ask the Bull Rebel (http://askthebullrebel.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kQsN-pvokrw ((Some Nights - FUN, cover by Jake Coco & Friends))


End file.
